


Kindnesses

by Morgelyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Forced Intimacy, Honestly Not Scat, M/M, Poor Theon Greyjoy, Psychological Torture, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Shame, Stomach Ache, Thramsay - Freeform, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgelyn/pseuds/Morgelyn
Summary: Theon learns how quickly kindnesses can become cruel.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	Kindnesses

**Author's Note:**

> Right, this is my first fic since the heady days of LiveJournal way-back-when and I'm not sure exactly what it says about me that it turned out to be Thramsay. But here we are, I suppose. 
> 
> Any comments or constructive criticism are most welcome, but please be gentle...
> 
> -

Theon shuddered awake from his half-doze, fear flooding his mind a split second before his consciousness as he heard noises outside the cell. Noises of boots and muffled talking. He couldn't understand the words, but one particular set of steps, the boots on the cold stones, was as familiar to him as any voice he could remember, a voice making cold threats veiled in soft words, a voice that could break into violent rage without warning. Ramsay.

Theon shook his head to clear the fear. No, not fear. Anger. He was sure that must be what he felt, it must be. He remembered as he had fallen asleep, last night or whenever it was. He had been thinking of stories he had heard as a child of warriors of history being held captive by an enemy and tortured. There had not been many (especially as he had not, as a child been particularly interested in that – he was more interested by the glory of battles and victory) and through the fog of hunger he had not been able to remember details. But he remembered the theme – when great men were tortured, they fought back, they took it with stoicism, honour and bravery, they spat in their captors faces and knew they would never be broken. Theon took a deep breath to steady himself and, supported by the rough stone wall behind him, pulled himself to his shaky feet. The effort of it caused him to pant, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out over his weakened body, but he was resolute. Whatever the bastard had planned, he would face like a warrior, an Ironborn. Like a man...but he did not allow himself to dwell on that particular thought.

He stood in the semi-darkness, concentrating on marshalling his breathing and keeping his trembling shoulders still and square. The muscles and joints were still weak from his full weight hanging from them, although he had not been on the cross for more than a few hours at a time in...days, weeks. He realised with slight panic that he did not know. Time had taken on a dilated quality. He had assumed that when they gave him water, a rough-hewn cup thrust through the hatch in the cell door, it was either morning or evening. At first he had tried to count, to keep track, but that had gone long ago. He had been given water, but no food and that made thinking difficult. Thoughts loomed through the fog of his hunger, too large and ineffable and monstrous to pin down. Let them, he thought, gritting the remains of his shattered teeth. It is part of their attempt to break me, and I will not break. I am Theon Greyjoy.

There was the rattle of keys then and Theon looked to the door, his face locked in what he hoped was a mask of defiance, his body as still as he could make it. Then the door opened, a rectangle of light too bright for him to see and, silhouetted within, a figure so big and dark it threatened to overwhelm. Theon felt a gasp rise in his throat, but bit it back. It was anger he felt, he told himself, anger at this Bolton bastard and what he had done to him. Not fear.

Ramsay entered the room and smiled at his captive, all sharp teeth and icy blue eyes. “Well now, little lordling. You seem to have recovered somewhat from the last time I saw you. No longer shaking and whimpering on the floor like a whipped dog.” 

Theon twitched at the memory, unsure even within himself how much of it was to do with shame and certainly not sure about the exact cause of that shame. When Ramsay had last been here, Theon had just been cut down from the cross. His limbs were unbound, a knife had been on the table within reach and that bastard had sat there watching, smiling as he did now. Theon tried to remember how much he had wanted to take the knife and plunge it into the bastard's heart, that it was just his body's weakened state that had prevented him. He tried so hard to remember that, not the feeling of relief from the tearing pain in his shoulders, not the feeling of perverse gratitude in his body as it shuddered uselessly on the cold stones, not the feeling of utter weakness as Ramsay's eyes looked down on him with inscrutable amusement.

Theon's mind floundered for a curse, searched for a response fitting for the occasion from one of the old songs of tortured heroes, but he could find nothing in the fog. It was hunger fogging his mind, he told himself, just hunger and not fear. Instead, he glared back at Ramsay with as much malice as he could muster. 

Ramsay just smiled pleasantly in response, a smile that was almost encouraging. It took more effort than Theon was expecting and soon he felt himself beginning to tremble. It took everything he had to maintain that look, but eventually his head began to twitch and he looked down, breathing hard with the effort. 

By the time he had the strength to look up again, Ramsay was sitting at the table. There was something on the table before him, a tray covered with a pewter lid, and Theon's mind was overcome with possibilities. A thumbscrew, a whip, even a flaying knife... He stilled himself. He could take it, he would be strong. Whatever had been done to him, whatever was to be done to him, he could be strong. He was Theon Greyjoy.

Ramsay's hand moved suddenly to the tray and Theon barely suppressed a flinch. He held his breath as the lid was lifted, awaiting knowledge of exactly how he was to be hurt this time. But there was no glint of a blade on the tray, no dark gleam from the knotted coils of a whip. Instead, a gentle steam rose and along with it, the warm smell of food. Roasted meats, vegetables, dark bread still warm from the ovens. Theon felt a nauseous desire then, the tightened knot of his empty stomach clutched in on itself and he could not prevent a small sob from passing his lips. It was not just desire, but desperation, and he knew with absolute clarity that he would do anything, anything for that food. He tried to hold it back, but he felt his mouth watering, drool pooling around his broken and missing teeth and stinging his split lip. With shame he noticed it dripping down his chin, but could do nothing to prevent it. He tried to look away from the tray, to look at Ramsay's face and regain the strength of his resolve, his hatred for the man. But Ramsay's face was ablaze with a benign victory and it just assured Theon that he had already lost. He fixed his gaze on the floor before him and just hoped against hope that whatever was forced upon him, the shame and the pain of it would not be too bad. He could already hear a small voice from somewhere within his broken mind telling him that any pain and any shame would be worth it for that food. And that was the final straw, that realisation. Theon found he was weeping then. He managed to stay silent and mostly still, but tears were flowing down his cheeks and he could do nothing to prevent them. The only sound for a long while was the dripping of drool and tears onto the cold flagstones.

“Tell me, little lordling, are you hungry?” Ramsay's voice was sweet and poisonous. With a start, Theon realised that he been ready to beg for the food unbidden, and forced the impulse down. This monster was likely going to make him beg, but Theon did not have to make it easy for him. He needed to be strong. Part of Theon acknowledged that his own definition of strength was changing and diminishing rapidly, but he cut the thought off. It would not help him to survive this and that was all he had to do, survive this and – hope against cruel hope – get to eat the food. He needed to be strong, but...he needed to get the food.

Ramsay was still smiling at him sweetly. “You must be so very, very hungry. Why don't you come over here, see what I've brought?” His voice dripped with false sympathy, but Theon could sense the coldness of a command beneath. So much of him wanted to resist on principle, so at least he could tell himself afterwards that he had tried, however token the effort. But the smell of the food was overwhelming and, before he could stop himself, he was hobbling towards it, making his way across the straw-strewn floor on shaky legs. His progress was slow, his weakened hips protesting that they could not hold him, his knees threatening to buckle at any moment. At one point his hip gave out and he caught himself from falling by grabbing hold of the cross with his mangled hands. He flinched back from touching it as though the wood burned him, taking his weight awkwardly and causing a spasm through the wasted muscle of his inner thigh and up through his groin. The shameful scar there pulsed wickedly, and it took everything Theon had not to be overcome then. He couldn't think about that now, had not thought about it since it had happened, or at least tried not to. It was too much, too much for right now when all he had to do was get to the food. 

A few more shaking steps and he was there. Sweat poured from him, he was was out of breath and trembling, but he stood before the food. His eyes were locked on it desperately. The aroma was stronger now, almost intolerably so. He could not remember anything he had wanted so much in his whole life, and as much as the thought chilled him, it comforted him also. All he needed to do was get the food. 

Ramsay stood up suddenly, the loud squeal of the wooden chair on the stones making Theon cringe and drawing his eyes up from the food. He found himself looking up at Ramsay now. Part of Theon wondered how he could be looking up at him - surely their heights had been similar with Theon perhaps even slightly taller? But that thought seemed so ridiculous now, with Ramsay looming over him and standing rather deliberately between him and the food. This is it, thought Theon. This is when he will make me beg, and I will. I will do it, but it will mean nothing. I am only doing it because I need to get the food. 

Theon closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, preparing himself to beg with what he hoped could be dignity. Then he cried out as large hands gripped his bony shoulders. He expected to be shaken, to be thrown roughly to the floor and kicked as he curled in on himself. A trick, a trick! How could he have hoped it to be otherwise? He tensed against the imminence of pain, a whimper in his throat.

But no pain came. Instead, Ramsay held his shoulders lightly, his fingers almost gentle as they cupped the prominent bones through the thin, bruise-pooled flesh. Theon would almost have believed it gentleness, if he hadn't felt the fingers probing the trembling of his torn muscles as they ached under the tension of his own fear. Ramsay was purposefully searching to feel that fear and pain under his hands, the feel it shuddering out through Theon no matter how much he tried to hide it. The thought sickened him and he struggled to stay motionless under the touch, trying not to see the joy in Ramsay's face as, despite his efforts, he found what he sought.

Still with this mock-gentleness, Ramsay guided Theon forward. He stumbled once, but the grip on his shoulders only tightened enough to stop him falling. He found he was being seated in the chair and it felt wrong. It was amazing how quickly sitting in a chair had become unnatural to him. When he hung from the cross, he dreamed of being able to lie on the floor. When he had been cut down from the cross, as he lay on that floor twitching and helpless, he dreamed of being able to sit up, just to lean his back against the wall and sit like a person. But sitting on a chair had not occurred to him and his body found the position strange, the bones in his skinny backside feeling sharp against the wood and the ground so dizzyingly far away. He could feel Ramsay behind him now, hands still on his shoulders and the warmth of his breath ruffling his filthy hair. But in front of him, so close it blocked everything else out, was the food. 

Before Theon could beg, Ramsay squeezed him shoulders in a parody of convivial bonhomie. “It's food for you,” he explained as though to an idiot. Theon turned back to look at him, dumbfounded. There must be a trick coming, he just couldn't see what it was. And his hunger and the proximity of the food was overwhelming. His mouth opened and closed dumbly, eyes wide and liquid as they searched Ramsay's face for a clue. But the face looking down on him was a blank smiling mask and revealed nothing beyond what he already knew – that he was going to be hurt, even if he didn't yet exactly know how. But perhaps first, he would get the food. 

Ramsay let go of his shoulders and crouched next to the chair, his smile broad and his voice quiet in Theon's ear. “You can eat it.” A brief jolt of shame went through Theon then, as he realised just how much he had been waiting for this permission. But it didn't matter, it didn't matter at all. With joy he set about the food. There was no cutlery, but he didn't care. All thoughts of dignity were lost as he shovelled the food into his mouth, scooping up rich roast pork and vegetables with his mangled hands and cramming it all into his mouth. He ate desperately, knowing that at any moment the jape would be revealed and he had to eat as much as possible before that happened. The food was still warm and he felt the heat of it flowing into him, like pure energy he was absorbing into the cold knot of his belly. It hurt to chew, and he could taste blood from where a molar had recently been ripped out, but the food, the food...

He continued to eat and the plate cleared. His pace slowed as his shrunken stomach swelled. It was almost a pain by the time he was finished, but a pain so different and warm and good compared to the hunger that it felt almost like pleasure. So much so that Theon almost allowed a small sound of pleasure to escape, but he kept it in. Ramsay was still smiling at him and it felt wrong. Well, Theon knew the trick was coming and he was prepared for it, the feeling of warm power in his belly fortifying him for whatever came next. He could be strong now, he knew he could. 

It was then that Ramsay went to the door and returned carrying another lidded tray. He set down before Theon and removed the lid was a flourish. It was another plate of food, slightly larger perhaps than the last. Theon looked up at Ramsay, then back down to the tray. His heart sank as he realised what was expected of him as Ramsay gave a grin that was encouraging as it was cruel. “You can eat it,” he said quietly, and Theon knew it was a command. He slowly picked up a carrot and brought it to his mouth. 

This second plate was cleared much more slowly, and Theon's agony increased with each mouthful. The pleasant stretch of his stomach became an ache and then a sharp stabbing pain as he forced more food into it. At one point he thought he would vomit, could feel his gorge rising in his throat until Ramsay spoke sharply, admonishing him with a warning that if he vomited he would have to eat the mess and still continue until the plate was clear. With a desperate swallow and a great force of will, Theon managed to keep it down and eat the final few mouthfuls. He grimaced and looked up at Ramsay, knowing that if there was another plate then he simply could not do it. It would not be physically possible. He looked up and, despite himself, he hoped. 

Ramsay stepped forward, but not towards the door. Instead, he approached Theon and looked down at him, still smiling but a smile now tinged with a cold hint of pride, of victory. He cupped the gauntness of his cheek and chuckled softly as Theon flinched, his eyes darting away. His voice was soft as he said, “How quickly kindnesses can become cruel, can they not?” A shudder ran up Theon's spine and he felt another urge to vomit, but he managed to keep his face impassive as he stared blankly at the floor. 

“Stand up now, little lordling,” said Ramsay, pulling at the stained rags of Theon's shirt. He didn't know if he tried to resist or not, but in any case soon found himself standing knock-kneed and trembling, caught in Ramsay's grip. The effort of standing put more pressure on his swollen stomach and a stab of pain hit him, causing him to moan faintly. Ramsay growled, a sort of purr in his throat and he repositioned himself behind Theon before he could even react. His left hand was loosely draped over his narrow chest to keep him in position and the right hovered less than inch in front of the grotesque swelling of his belly as it jutted out from his skinny form. It was as if he was feeling the heat from it through the rags. Theon flinched back, pure instinct controlling his movements - he had to somehow protect his vulnerable belly. But as he moved back, he felt Ramsay's hardness against his buttocks and flinched forward again. Trapped between two unbearable alternatives, his mind flailed and he panicked. He began to hyperventilate, breaths coming fast and uneven. The ragged movement of his chest pulled again on his stomach and he cried out, from pain and terror and pure helplessness. 

Ramsay just held him there loosely, allowing his shuddering movements to slow to just a faint trembling. He could feel the breath hot on his neck, which threatened to set him off into another panic, but he just managed to control himself. When he was almost still, he felt Ramsay's hand delicately cup the swell of his belly. The touch was so soft, yet infinitely possessive. They both knew that all he had to do was press down just ever so slightly and Theon would throw up, all his struggles to eat the enormous meals would be for nothing and this would end with his complete humiliation, on his knees lapping up his own mess from the floor. Maybe that was the only way it could ever have ended, but Theon knew he had to try. He kept as still as he could, the feeling of the hand over his grotesquely swollen belly revoltingly invasive. Ramsay rubbed gently, cooing at the taught flesh and delighting in the trembling figure in his arms. It was then that a cramp ripped through Theon's abdomen and Ramsay pressed slightly harder. Not enough to make the pain worse, but to better feel it. Theon's every instinct was to curl himself into a ball around the cramp, to protect himself as it tore through him. But he fought it and forced himself to remain standing, to allow Ramsay's hand to caress his pain as he suffered through it. The hand snaked beneath his shirt then and he could feel the palm directly against his taut skin, fingers rubbing his belly softly and giving just enough of a grim parody of comfort. Another cramp ripped through him and it was too much. 

“Please...”, he managed to force out between cracked lips. “Please don't, I'm sorry, please stop.”

Ramsay let him go so suddenly that Theon swayed and fell to one knee, grunting at the jolt to his stomach. He looked up at Ramsay then, eyes wide with so much fear that the shame burned through him almost unnoticed. Ramsay shook his head and spoke with such sympathy, but the grin of triumph on his face was too much to miss. “Poor broken kraken,” he said, gazing down at Theon's cowed frame. “How much longer do you think you can bear it, with all your weakness?” 

Theon could only answer with a sob, recognising the truth despite his intentions. He was still sobbing when Ramsay left, taking the trays with him and leaving him shaking on his knees. Eventually, after however long it took to convince himself that Ramsay wasn't going to burst back through the door, Theon allowed himself to curl up on the floor.

Even with the relative comfort of his new position, the cramps grew steadily worse. For brief time, he was able to sleep, but the pain awoke him and he struggled to breathe as it wracked his small body. He pressed his hands to his swollen belly in an instinctive attempt to relieve a particularly violent cramp, then withdrew them quickly as the sensation only reminded him of before, of another hand on him possessing his body and his pain. His body and his pain were nearly inseparable now, he noticed, and he knew with horror that neither would belong to him for much longer. Everything would be taken from him eventually, offered up with only the meekest of protests in exchange for nothing, not even kindnesses but more cruelties. There would not even be the lying kindness of a trick, nothing to hide behind and allow him the false comfort of telling himself that he had tried. It was with dawning horror that he realised that the bastard had given him exactly what he wanted, and even that kindness had been almost more pain than he could bear. If he could not take this man's twisted idea of kindness, how could he hope to survive his cruelty? Perhaps Theon Greyjoy could, but Theon Greyjoy seemed so far away. He seemed like a character from one of the old stories, someone who could react to torture with stoicism, honour and bravery, and by spitting in his captor's face. Not by whimpering and crying on the floor because he had been given too much to eat and it had given him a bellyache. He wept and realised that whatever he was, he wasn't a hero or a warrior or even a man. He was nothing now. 

And so when the cramps went deeper, when he could feel the pain spasming low in his belly in a familiar cry, he crouched in the corner, scrabbling at the laces of his breeches with mangled fingers which could not grip. He gave up and pulled them down over his scrawny hips, just in time as liquid fire burst from him, the splattering sound so loud and humiliating in the dark silence. He cleaned himself as best he could with straw, crawled to the other side of the cell and cried in the dark, utterly bereft. He was without the fiction of Theon Greyjoy now, and all he could hope for was that whatever replaced him would be better able to tolerate the pain and the shame. Not even to end it, but to survive it – that was the extent of his goal now, and even that seemed as unobtainable as flying. He began to weep anew, body wracked with broken sobs, until eventually he fell gratefully into the oblivion of a dreamless sleep. 

The only real kindness was that he did not know that it had taken barely more than a fortnight.

**Author's Note:**

> I might have been slightly over-zealous with the tags, but thought it was better to err on the side of caution for the moment.


End file.
